Juliet Bell - The Heights - A dark story of obsession and revenge

The two girls were whispering together, then they looked over at him and saw him watching. They giggled and turned away, arms linked as they scurried home. One of them cast a quick glance over her shoulder. She had curly blonde hair and a really short skirt. She wasn’t as good-looking as that Aussie bird on TV, but Mick thought she was all right. He wouldn’t mind seeing her in a pair of tight black leather pants.

He watched her until she turned the corner, then he pushed himself off the wall. This town sucked. There was nothing to do. It was starting to get dark and a bit cold as he sauntered slowly down the hill towards the creek. He walked along the old fallen tree that spanned the stream without a second thought. Like all the kids from the Heights, he’d been crossing from the town to the estate that way for as long as he had been walking.

On the mine side of the stream, he turned left, towards the pit gates. He could see a gaggle of men standing talking outside the gates – talking strikes, no doubt. The union had just balloted them again, and still not got the result they wanted. His dad was dead against striking, but Mick didn’t agree. If he was ever stupid enough to work there, he’d definitely vote for the chance to take time off.

His dad reckoned it’d get nasty, though, police all over the place and no money coming in. Mick grinned at the idea of coppers trying to keep a bunch of angry miners in check. It’d take more than a truncheon and a stupid helmet to win a fight with the lads from the Heights.

‘Mick!’ His father was one of the men clustered around an oil drum. The miners liked his dad. He was their shift leader. Not a boss – he was one of them. He worked beside them on the coalface. They respected him too, and he was a union rep. He must be a better man down the mines than he was at home. At home, he didn’t say much except to row with Mick’s mum. He always had time for Cathy, of course, and for Heathcliff, but he barely even looked at Mick these days. Maybe here, in front of his friends, his old man would treat him better.

He sauntered over, lighting another cigarette as he did. In his mind he could see his father put an arm around his shoulders and introduce him to the other men as his son, with a tinge of pride in his voice.

‘Where did you get those fags?’ His father’s voice was accompanied by a clip round the back of his head. ‘You been stealing again?’

‘No,’ Mick mumbled as he ducked away.

‘If you’ve been wasting your dole money on beer and fags, I’ll have something to say about it. When you get a job, you can buy fags. In the meantime, you get home and give over that money to your mother. Time you paid for your keep ‘an all.’

Mick mumbled something incoherent, feeling his face redden with embarrassment. How could his father treat him like this in front of the other men? ‘Now you get on home,’ his father said. ‘And tell your mother I might be late. We’ve got union things to sort out.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the nearby men. Sure, they thought his dad was great. They didn’t have to live with him.

As Mick turned away, he heard his father’s voice. ‘He’s always in trouble that one. Time he got a job. There’s nowt for him here.’

‘Me brother works in Manchester. Building trade,’ Mick heard someone say. ‘I can get him to ask around.’

Now that would be the thing, Mick thought as he trudged home. Get out of this bloody dead-end town. There was no way he was ever going down that pit. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life covered in sweat and black filth. He was going to make something of himself.

He let the front door bang shut behind him. He thought about going up to his room and forgetting to tell his mother about the food. Serve his dad right to go hungry. But Mick was hungry too, so he sauntered through into the kitchen.

It was empty.

‘Mum!’ he called loudly. Maybe she was in the loo.

He shrugged and opened the bread bin. It was empty. Damn it. His stomach rumbled loudly. The fridge was pretty much empty too. Maybe that’s where his mother was – out getting food. There was one of his dad’s precious cans of Stella in the fridge. Despite what he said in front of the men, his dad always seemed to be able to afford beer. Mick grabbed it and ripped the top off. He took a deep swig, and them almost coughed it all back up again. Rubbing his sleeve across his mouth, he sipped it a bit more slowly as he headed upstairs.

The door to his parents’ room was open. He could see the room was a mess. That was strange. His mum wasn’t the world’s greatest housekeeper, but she was better than that.

‘Mum?’ he called. ‘You there?’

When there was still no answer, he walked into the room and looked around. It was empty. The door of the tatty wooden wardrobe was open, and it was empty. It wasn’t just that his mother wasn’t there; none of her stuff was either. A few wire hangers hung from the rail. Most of the drawers were open too, with nothing inside. Mick swallowed hard. Had they been robbed? Even as he thought it, he knew it didn’t make sense. Burglars didn’t carefully select women’s clothes and leave everything else behind.

He saw something he recognised in an otherwise empty drawer. He pulled it out. It was a scarf – the one he had given his mother for Christmas a couple of years ago. He had saved for weeks to get it for her, and she’d said she loved it. It was bright-red and she’d smiled when she opened the gift, saying it made the place more cheerful.

She was gone. Mick knew it. She’d left him. And she had left his scarf behind.

Clutching the scarf, he left the room and headed into his own bedroom. He wasn’t going to cry. He started to shove the scarf into his bottom drawer, the place where he hid his fags and the dirty magazines Davo stole off his dad. As he did, he happened to glance at the small bundle of belongings on the truckle bed. In the corner of the room. Bloody Heathcliff. Everything had gone to shit since that brat arrived. His mum and dad had barely spoken to each other, and now she was gone. And she’d left Mick behind… Biting back the lump in his throat, he grabbed the sorry bundle of clothes and opened the door. There was no way that little shit was going to sleep here any more. Not after driving his mother away.

He flung Heathcliff’s belongings into the small recessed corner at the top of the stairs. The bed followed. Then Mick walked back into his room and slammed the door. Hard.

‘We’re going to be in trouble,’ Heathcliff declared as they walked back down the path from the blue hills.

‘Nah,’ Cathy said. ‘There’s more trouble down the pit. Always is. Dad spends more time there than at home. And Mum doesn’t care any more. She won’t say anything. She’ll just make us do what the nurse said.’

‘Were they always like that?’

Cathy bit her lips as she tried to remember. There must have been some better times. Maybe before things went bad at the mine. And in the house. She seemed to remember hearing her parents laugh. But not recently.

‘I guess…’ she said hesitantly. ‘What about yours?’

‘There was only ever me and me mam,’ Heathcliff said. ‘And she never laughed much.’

They reached the fence behind their house, and slipped through the back gate. The first thing Cathy saw was Mick, standing in the yard, a fag dangling from his fingers. It was too late to avoid him. Mick’s arm shot out and grabbed Heathcliff. Cathy dropped her bag to pull Heathcliff out of her brother’s grasp. Her school stuff tumbled across the yard. Mick bent down and picked up the bottle. ‘What’s this?’

Cathy folded her arms across her body. ‘It’s nit stuff,’ she mumbled. ‘We’ve got to put in in our hair. All of us.’